


jason the friendly ghost

by happyrobins



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bad Puns, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury, Mild Gore, attempted spectral body possession, bruce worries he's finally losing his mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyrobins/pseuds/happyrobins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason isn’t gone. He lives in the memorial case and takes his job of haunting the cave only a little seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	jason the friendly ghost

Hasn’t even been a week since the funeral when Bruce starts hearing it.

It’s faint and faraway, like an echo from deep inside the cave. And familiar, so achingly familiar. He could never forget that brash, unguarded laugh. No matter how ridiculous the boy’s antics, no matter Bruce’s mood, that laugh never failed to make a smile tug at the corners of his mouth—

He catches himself in the middle of remembering. It won’t do.

Jason is gone. That sound—the one he keeps hearing, and he doesn’t know whether is real or a memory—is just the squeaking of the bats, reverberations distorted and warped by the cave walls. He convinces himself of that.

It does sound different than usual. The humidity, perhaps. The temperature. Maybe they found a new spot to roost.

It could just be that the cave hasn’t been this quiet since… 

It hasn’t been this quiet in a while.

He ignores it all and retreats into the work at hand.

 

—

 

The sudden smashing of a dozen test tubes against the stone floor definitely isn’t the first strange occurrence in the cave recently. Freshly sharpened batarangs have been swept off tables to clatter on the ground, machines have been malfunctioning (like someone had been pressing all the wrong buttons), Bruce has even returned to his chair in front of the computer to find it spinning but empty, as though being moved by some draft he couldn’t feel.  

But this shattered glass is the biggest mess so far. It’s becoming harder to neatly reason away.

A bat, Bruce tells himself firmly. A bat must have swooped down and knocked the vials down. The most likely explanation.

(Even though the bats should all be asleep right now. Even though he hadn’t heard or seen anything before it happened. Even though when he’d asked Alfred days ago if he’d noticed the bats acting strangely, he had no idea what Bruce was talking about.)

Instead of calling Alfred, Bruce crouches down and starts sweeping up the broken glass himself.  It feels like evidence, somehow. Proof of some worrying truth he’d rather no one else see.

One of the larger shards glints bright red yellow green as Bruce picks it up.

He tenses like he’s been plunged into water colder than ice, the piece of glass falling from his fingers to shatter on the ground. Every instinct is screaming at him to turn around and look, but he grits his teeth and keeps cleaning up glass.

There’s nothing behind him. No one. The shard just caught a reflection of the Robin uniform in the case. That’s all.

 

—

 

Bruce can’t fight it any longer. He misses Jason too much. He misses Jason’s jokes, his energy. How just having him around made the mission feel like less of a burden. He misses seeing Jason’s face instead of the uniform he left behind.

It’s too hard to keep ignoring the voice in the cave, the constant presence just behind his back, the flickering reflection in the corner of the computer screen… All the  _accidents_  that he can’t keep blaming on the bats because with every day they seem more and more like pleas for attention.

He worries what it means for his sanity. Accepting it. Giving in. Worries whether it means he’s taking a step over that line he’s skirted too close to in the past.

But it’s worth some small part of his sanity, to have Jason back. In any form.

 

—

 

Jason’s ghost, or what Bruce imagines to be Jason’s ghost, lives in the memorial case. Bruce has stopped questioning how or why.

When he walks down the stairs to the cave Jason always swoops out of the glass and greets him with a grin. Like a ghost, Jason is very much incorporeal. Transparent, intangible. Touching him is like putting a hand through mist. 

Bruce hates his delusions for stopping there. If only Jason could be more real. He doesn’t want the last time he held Jason to be when he cradled his dead body in the blackened ruins of that warehouse.

Jason’s ghost carries with him the faint scent of smoke from that day. Of blood smeared on metal. It’s a small thing, something Bruce should be able to get used to and ignore but it… gets to him, sometimes. The memory. It rattles in that hollow spot in his chest and aches.

Jason seems to be dealing with this situation better than Bruce is. He talks and laughs, cracks jokes. It’s just like the way it used to be, and at times Bruce can only think about how much he doesn’t deserve this.

When Bruce lingers on thoughts like those, he’ll turn around and instead of seeing a whole, healthy, smiling Jason floating there he’ll see the ravaged body he dug out of the rubble—broken and beaten, more burns and blood than skin.

Jason never seems to notice.

 “Jason, what are you doing here?” Bruce asks hoarsely after a long, grueling night alone on patrol, sitting in front of the computers with his head in his hands.

He can’t look at Jason. He isn’t sure what he’ll see—Jason happy and alive but not _real_ , or the bleeding, broken Jason he sees in his nightmares. He doesn’t think he can handle either of them, not right now.

“I dunno, Boss. Got no clue. I was hoping you could tell me that.”

 

—

 

A chill goes up the back of Tim’s neck every time he passes by the glass memorial case displaying the uniform of the Robin before him. The hair on the back of his neck prickles and he always finds himself being as quiet as possible, hardly daring to breathe, until he’s far enough away that the blank lenses of the mask’s eyes no longer look like they’re  _watching_  him.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it being there. The glass case has a heavier, more foreboding presence in the cave than even Bruce. Even Batman himself.

Sometimes when Tim’s alone in the cave, like he is now, he lingers in front of the memorial and wonders about the boy who came before him. Bruce doesn’t like talking about Jason and Tim hardly ever sees Dick. Alfred always looks too sad when Jason’s name is brought up, so Tim doesn’t ask him.

And besides, what Tim wants isn’t someone telling him stories about Jason. What he wants is to talk to Jason himself. He places a palm tentatively against the glass and wonders what Jason would think of him if they could meet. What Jason might say…

“ _Boo!_ ”

Tim shrieks and staggers backwards at the ghostly, glowering face that pops out of the case. The railing hits his back and for one heart-stopping, teetering second before he manages to grab onto it he thinks he’s about to plunge over the edge of the cave platform and fall down,  _down_  the steep cliff into the river below.

“Close one,” Jason remarks. Tim stares at him with wide eyes.

It is Jason. He’s seen pictures. Watched videos. He knows that’s Jason. The dark bangs curling over his forehead, the round face. The costume and the crooked smile.

“H-How?” Tim stammers. It’s some kind of trick—a test of Bruce’s, an illusion set up by an enemy. There’s no way—

“It’s magic,” says Jason airily—like it’s the most obvious answer in the world—as he flips in the air and floats upside-down in front of Tim.

“What? But… There’s no such thing as—”

Jason’s lip curls scornfully. “What kinda Robin doesn’t believe in magic?” Looking irritated, he flips himself right-side-up and swoops away, up towards the ceiling where he disappears among the shadows and stalactites.

Tim stares. Blinks a few times. Jason doesn’t come back.

His legs feel wobbly as he takes a small step towards the stairs. And another one. And then he’s  _running_ , stumbling at the foot of the staircase and banging his knee but not stopping. Tim chances glancing over his shoulder, just for a second, and—

—he slams right into Bruce. Bounces off the man’s chest—it’s like hitting a brick wall—and would’ve tumbled down all the stairs he just climbed if not for Bruce grabbing him by the front of the shirt in time.

 

—

 

Jason is a ghost. And apparently that’s okay. Normal.

Normal enough, for this place. This life. Turns out he’s been hanging out in the cave ever since he died, way before Tim showed up. Tim just hasn’t been able to see him until now.

(He used to think Bruce just muttered to himself a lot as he worked. He used to wonder why Bruce would smile so often at— at seemingly  _nothing_.)

“I thought I was losing my mind when I started seeing him,” Bruce admits. There’s a guardedness to his expression that tells Tim he hasn’t quite abandoned that thought. “Until I found out he’d been joining Alfred for tea most afternoons.” 

After that Jason becomes a regular part of Tim’s time in the cave. Another member of their secret underground crimefighting club. Just one more thing for Tim to get used to about the job. 

Jason’s determined to make the best of his situation, eager to help out in any way he can. Which… isn’t many, considering that he isn’t exactly physical—with a lot of concentration he can only move small objects a few feet, that’s all—but when it comes to solving cases, the more minds working at it the better. And most importantly he makes Bruce smile and  _laugh_.  

He helps Tim train when Bruce is busy with a case, or isn’t around. Although “help” is a pretty relative term—he has some great advice and helpful pointers but most of the time he’s just a distraction while Tim tries to study. Or he’s cackling from the ceiling when Tim screws up a flip and lands on his butt.

“ _Finally_ ,” Jason complains, sliding out of the dark stone wall to intercept Tim halfway down the stairs to the cave. His little surprise entrances don’t even get a flinch out of Tim anymore. “B’s been gone all day and I’m bored  _to death_. Wanna spar or something?”

Jason’s bad death puns are something else Tim’s gotten used to.  _Over_   _my dead body_ , _I’m dead serious_ , and countless more. 

Tim shakes his head. “Sorry, Jason. I’ve got a lot of old case files to memorize this afternoon.”

"Aww, c’mon," whines Jason, turning a somersault in the air beside Tim as they make their way down the stairs. "You’ll have lots of time to do those later, when Bruce gets back. Just a few rounds. Let’s go."

There’s not much Tim can do but roll his eyes wearily and follow Jason to the training mats. He won’t be able to get any work done anyway, with Jason in a mood like this.

Because of Jason’s…  _condition_ , sparring with him is a no-contact sport. Can’t do any holds or headlocks or pins but it’s good practice for Tim’s punches and kicks. His form’s gotten a lot better and Jason’s shown him some useful moves for taking down larger opponents. Tim used one successfully on Bruce last week and the man was actually impressed.

Plenty of times, Tim’s seen Jason watch with unconcealed jealousy as Tim spars with Bruce. Jealous even while Tim’s struggling to free himself from some of the most painful, arm-twisting chokeholds. Flashes of something like heartbreak dart across the dead boy’s face when Bruce so much as places a proud hand on Tim’s shoulder.

Tim’s never brought it up, though. Jason can make jokes about being dead, treats his existence as a ghost with good humour, but it’s obvious that the loss of touch is a sore spot for him.

“So… I was thinking, today…” Jason brings up as they’re taking a break from sparring. (And Jason only called a break because Tim was  _winning_  for once, since Tim’s not winded at all yet and Jason can’t get winded.) “Maybe  _you_  could help  _me_ with some training for a change. Ghost stuff. I want to sharpen my ghost skills.”

Tim takes a swig from his water bottle and shrugs. “Okay. Sure. What do you want to work on?”

“I was thinking, like… because spirits are s’posed to be able to possess folks, right? Happens all the time in books and movies, and Deadman does it to Bruce and Alfie sometimes when he needs to talk, so  _I_  should be able to do it, too. I just haven’t tried yet. I thought maybe I could practice on you.”

“What?” Shocked, Tim accidentally wrenches his neck too sharply as he’s stretching out his sore arms. Really yanks a muscle in there.  _Ow_. “You mean taking over my body? Jason, that’s… too weird. Sorry.” He thought Jason meant practicing moving objects around, needing Tim to keep time and measure distances. Or practicing turning invisible. He’d be fine helping with something like that.

Jason rolls his eyes. “I won’t be  _taking over_  your body. You’ll get it back. I probably can’t even do it, or only for a couple seconds. I just wanna try.”

“I— I don’t really…” Tim flounders. He bites his lip, thinking. “Why don’t you try it on Bruce? He can probably help you train better than I can.”

“‘Cause there’s no way he’d ever let me do it on him.” Crossing his arms, Jason floats up, way up over Tim’s head. He always does that when he’s upset, lurks up near the ceiling where he doesn’t have to face anyone while he’s fuming. “There’s just so much stuff I miss about having a body. Stuff I miss doing. Like… Like eating, especially Alfie’s food. God, whenever he brings down cookies for you guys I wish I could just _smell_  them, but I can’t even do that. And I miss being able to…” He trails off, his body going paler, fading away until he’s nearly invisible. “It’s— It’s just not  _fair_.”

"Oh.” Tim looks up at Jason sadly. “Well… you could try it on me. Just a bit. It’s okay.”

“Nah, now I’ll feel all guilty about it. I know you’re still all weirded out,” says Jason, floating up a little higher. He can hide the disappointment on his face but not in his voice.

“I’m serious, Jason. It could be really useful for the mission one day,” Tim calls up to him. “And… And if you’re controlling my body, you can help me with that handspring routine I’ve been having trouble with. I know  _you_  can do it, and I’m sure if I can get through the whole thing one time I’ll have the timing down for good.”

(The real reason he hasn’t mastered that routine yet is because Jason is always swooping down to startle him during the tougher flips. Jason said that Bruce told him to, because there’s plenty of worse distractions in the field, but Tim is pretty sure Jason’s just having some fun.)

Jason floats down slowly and tilts his head, considering it. Squints at Tim to tell whether he’s being honest. “I’ll only do it for a couple seconds at first, promise,” he says once he’s at Tim’s level. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

It doesn’t really work, the spectral body-possession. They practice for an hour and the only result is Tim’s arm getting tingly like it’s fallen asleep. 

Doesn’t stop them from practicing again whenever they get the chance, but after a few weeks of zero progress, once it becomes obvious that it won’t work, Jason eventually gives up on the idea. Tim feels bad for being so relieved.

 

—

 

Over the months, Tim watches as Bruce brings magic and supernatural experts into the cave to consult for cases, to arrange magical immunity as part of the cave’s security, for dozens of other work reasons and  _never_  about the ghost haunting them.

Tim’s met Zatanna and Jason Blood and Deadman (in Alfred’s body). He’s seen them standing in the cave, talking to Bruce, completely unaware that the spirit of the second Robin is floating in the air right in front of their eyes. If anyone should be able to sense a ghost, it’s one of them.

Tim has no idea why this is. What it means. But he thinks he understands why Bruce thought he was losing his mind.

Strangest of all is that even Dick, during his infrequent visits, never sees Jason. He complains of drafts. He’s frustrated that he keeps forgetting where he set down his coffee cup, or his motorcycle helmet, or his escrima sticks, or whatever item their resident ghost felt like picking up and hiding somewhere else. And after a couple of sleepless nights, Dick avoids staying over.

“I guess I’ve been away too long. It’s been like those first few nights at the manor all over again. I had trouble sleeping then, too,” he confides in Tim. “The place just feels so big and empty, and  _haunted_. I forgot how loud these walls creaked.”

Jason pouts when Bruce scolds him for tormenting Dick.

“What’s the point of being a ghost if I can’t have some fun with it?” he grumbles as he floats off to sulk in his memorial case for a few hours.

 

—

 

Tim hears Bruce and Jason arguing one evening as he makes his way down to the cave. Their voices aren’t raised very much, but sound tends to echo loudly off the cold stone walls. He can’t make out what they’re saying until he’s at the foot of the stairs, and he pauses there, debating whether he should head back up to the house and leave them be.

He sees the Joker’s face on the computer screens—footage of him breaking out of Arkham, what must have been just minutes ago—and immediately knows what they’re fighting about.

“You’re just  _scared_ ,” Jason’s telling Bruce accusingly. Their backs are turned, they’re too caught up in their heated discussion to notice Tim by the stairs. “I know you think that I’m only here ‘cause I haven’t been avenged, but you don’t  _know_  that I’ll disappear if you—”

“And you don’t know that it won’t happen,” says Bruce calmly. He’s not angry, refuses to be angry, but that resolve is glass-thin and close to cracking with the tensing of his shoulders, the clenching of his hands into fists, and Tim feels sorry for Jason if it does. Not that Bruce needs to shout to be terrifying. “You can’t know.”

“Well, maybe I don’t  _care_ ,” Jason retorts.

“I care.” Bruce breathes a long, quiet,  _exhausted_  sigh. Tim thought it was anger he was holding back, but maybe it was something else. “I lost you once already, Jason…”

An odd thing happens to Jason sometimes, when Bruce is talking to him. Tim’s seen it before. 

Jason… flickers. Flickers between his usual self and something gruesome, with raw, angry, burned skin, hanging slouched and limp in the air like his bones are too broken to support him. Dripping blood and wearing a charred, tattered uniform.

Tim’s never seen a dead body before he met Jason. Not like this.

He wonders if this is what Bruce sees all the time.

“It won’t be the same as me dying again—in case you haven’t noticed, I’m already dead!” Jason gestures at himself. The words ring loud like one of his usual jokes, but not even Jason’s laughing this time. “Look, B. I’m okay with being like this. Really. There’s some parts that suck, but I can deal with that as long as I’m still with you. I’d be okay hanging out here for— for decades, until it’s your time to go. I would. But not if it means you’re putting off dealing with that murdering piece of garbage just to keep me around.” He shakes his head slowly, bitterly. “I can’t— I  _can’t believe_  you’re still letting him hurt people after what he did to me. He’s killing more and more people every chance he gets and I’d rather be gone for good than be here to watch it.”

“Jason…” says Bruce. The boy stubbornly refuses to look at him, so he says more sternly, “ _Jason_. We’ve talked about this. I can’t. I’ve wanted to, more than anything. You can’t even imagine the lengths I’ve wanted to go to so he’ll suffer the way he deserves. How close I’ve come. But… It’s not that simple,” Bruce admits through gritted teeth, like it pains him. “I can’t do it.”

“You  _won’t_ ,” Jason corrects petulantly. “Because you’re scared.” Crossing his arms, he turns away from Bruce. “Not like I can do anything ‘bout it, can I? Might as well shut up. Can’t do the job myself, can’t make you  _care_ —”

His voice cracks into a sob and he claps his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to catch the sound. He whirls around to glare at Bruce and even Tim can see how his eyes are wide and wounded and  _burning_.

“ _Jason_ —” Bruce says sharply, but Jason’s already swooping away, disappearing in the glass walls of his case where none of them can reach him.

 

—

 

Tim wakes up on a cot in the cave’s med-bay. His ribs hurt, he notices through a brain fog of drugs that are keeping that pain from being unbearable.

Gritting his teeth, he tries to move—to sit up, to turn on his side, anything—but. It hurts. A lot.

So he gives up and just lies there, staring at the cave ceiling and trying not to itch at the tubes in his arms and nose. Trying to focus on his breathing. Breathing hurts.

A grinning, translucent face appears in front of Tim’s. “Hey, look who’s finally awake!”

Tim can only rasp in reply. His throat is too dry. Jason floats a bottle of water over to him, but he has to twist the cap off himself. Which turns out the be the hardest thing he’s had to do in his life. He nearly doesn’t manage it.

“How you feeling?” Jason asks, hovering cross-legged over Tim’s chest and peering down at him.

“Ok, I guess. I…” Tim’s stomach sinks in dread as he remembers everything, as the fuzzy memories of the night before all come back to him. “It’s all my fault,” he says hollowly. “It was a stupid mistake. I should’ve known better.” The feeling of failure is worse than the pain. “I shouldn’t have hesitated like that. Bruce was counting on me and I— I could’ve gotten him killed.” A cold expression passes over Jason’s face at that, and for a second Tim fears the worst. Starts to panic. He hadn’t even thought… “Is Bruce—”

“Oh, he’s fine. Don’t worry ‘bout him. You should probably be worrying about yourself. Your ribs are bruised pretty bad—not broken though, you’re lucky—and B’s ready to ground you for the month. Even fire you.” Jason waves a hand carelessly. “Not a big deal if he does fire you, he usually gets over that with a little convincing.”

“Maybe he should fire me. I deserve it. I screwed everything up.”

Jason bursts out laughing. Peals of laughter echo off the cave walls. Tim frowns at him in annoyance, but he doesn’t stop.

That’s kind of rude.

“You think you’re the first Robin who’s screwed up?” says Jason, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I did lots of times, way more than you. And I know for a fact that Goldie’s not as golden as B makes him out to be. Screwing up’s part of the job, ‘specially at the beginning. Kind of a rough learning curve, learning how to be perfect. And the city’s a real mean teacher.” He pats Tim on the shoulder, as much as he can without be able to touch him. It’s the gesture that counts. “But, if worse comes to worst, you can always share my case. Plenty of room in there.”

Tim frowns, for a moment imagining being a ghost like Jason. What would the chances be of him turning into a ghost, anyway? Wouldn’t he just  _die_? Would Bruce give him his own memorial case? How long until there would be a new Robin? Would his dad ever find out the truth?

He doesn’t think he’d ever want to be a ghost. But he feels like he shouldn’t tell Jason that.

“I was  _kidding_ ,” assures Jason, rolling his eyes at Tim’s apparent lack of humour. “Stop looking so serious. You’re not gonna die.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. He just lies there and stares up at the rustling shadows on the ceiling of the cave. He wants some time by himself, to think. Jason gets the hint and leaves him alone for a while.

Tim manages to struggle and wince his way up into a sitting position. The pain is terrible—he thinks his painkillers are wearing off, Alfred’s probably going to be down soon to check up on him.

For a while he watches Jason float aimlessly around the cave, all the way up to weave between the stalactites and all the way down to skim over the water, his ghostly cape fluttering behind him. 

Jason doesn’t stay away too long. He keeps doubling back to check on Tim, lingering just close enough to make sure he’s okay. Probably thinks he’s being subtle about it, but with Jason there’s no such thing. He’s transparent in more ways than one.

He hovers around one of the work tables nearby, pretending to be busy perusing Bruce’s scattered notes but glancing over at Tim enough to be obvious. Though Tim’s not sure if it’s out of concern or boredom. Loneliness.

Tim’s breath catches the next time Jason looks up and their eyes meet, because the face he sees suddenly changes—becomes bruised and bloodied, smudged with ash and dirt and the pale tint of death.

Tim doesn’t understand why he’s seeing this now. It only ever happens when Bruce is nearby, but he isn’t even in the cave right now. It’s just Tim and Jason.

Feeling sick, Tim tries his best not to stare. But it’s impossible, it’s too horrific to tear his eyes away from.

“What was it like? When you died?” He’s never dared to ask it before, and he isn’t sure he wants to know, but the question is blurted out before he can stop himself.

Jason turns toward Tim and wrinkles his nose. There’s a trickle of blood flowing thickly down the side of his face but he doesn’t seem to mind or notice. “Aww, I don’t wanna talk about that. Me and Bruce have had this conversation a bunch of times already. It wasn’t fun. The conversation, not the dying— Well, uh, both, actually. Neither. Neither were fun.”

Tim wraps his arms around his knees and rests his chin atop them, lapsing back into contemplation. He doesn’t really expect Jason to say anything more, doesn’t try to press the topic, so it’s a surprise when he speaks again.

“It hurt a lot.” His tone is oddly light, conversational, like he’s talking about something as minor as a broken ankle instead of his own death. “More than  _anything_. I don’t remember so well the part where I actually died… too many blows to the head, I guess. There was a bomb, a lot of heat and burning, but… I was so messed up by then that it all felt like a bad dream. One thing I do remember is what it felt like when I saw those number ticking down, and I knew…”  He stops, and shrugs. “If I could still sleep, I’d have nightmares about it.”

Tim’s had nightmares about it, even though he’s not the one who died.

"There, is that all you wanted to know?" asks Jason, when Tim doesn’t say anything.

Tim closes his eyes. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He hugs his knees tighter even though it hurts his ribs.

“Thanks, I guess,” says Jason dully, face set in an unimpressed grimace as he sinks down through the floor and disappears. “I’m getting dead tired of hearing that, though.”

 

—

 

Jason’s ghost disappears one day without word or warning. Bruce returns from patrol with Tim and Jason’s not there to greet them. They saw him just hours ago, but suddenly he’s nowhere to be found.

He wasn’t angry, wasn’t in any sort of bad mood when Bruce left. There’s no reason for him to be hiding in the cave or ignoring them. And even when Jason is angry, he gets bored and lonely too soon for him to hide for more than a few hours.

The first thing Bruce does is check the security feed at Arkham. He goes to the asylum the next night to see with his own eyes, and it’s just as the cameras showed. The Joker is still alive. Yet Jason is gone.

Days, weeks, go by. They wait patiently but Jason never shows his face again. He no longer haunts the cave. It’s quieter, without him. It hurts more to look at Jason’s case and know that the boy isn’t hiding inside, won’t be popping out of it trying to spook him.

Bruce wants to believe— _has_  to believe—that wherever Jason is now, he’s at peace.

He’s wrong. Jason couldn’t be farther from peace. But he won’t find that out until much later, when he’s forced to confront the ambitious new crime lord carving out a place in Gotham with bullets and fear. He’s wrong.


End file.
